


two parts abandonment all parts holy

by boywiththerose



Category: SteveBucky - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 09:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10591107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boywiththerose/pseuds/boywiththerose
Summary: Steve thinks he's lost Bucky, and his mind. Vodka. Blue. Blood. Loss. Times Two.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know this story will be confusing. Bear with me–it's meant to be.

December 12th, 2023

The wind bites at his skin like forceful kisses, tears start out warm and shift to ice, lips cracked and the fold of them lined with dry blood. Rejects himself, the outcome of it not pretty, an emotional, grotesque manifestation of abandonment he'd never dreamt of years prior. 

Snow continues to fall, yet inside he is peaceful. Time has stopped at the simple wish of him wanting it to, the yells only a mere tickle in his ears, and his nature tells him to turn, and give peace of mind to all those but himself, and he pushes it away. Pain had erupted from cycles of choices, so he was breaking off. He could no longer feel his feet, not that it mattered anyway, and if anyone was reaching for his hand, he had no way of feeling it. It was at this time in which he felt foolish for wearing a winter hat, gloves, or anything for that matter. It'd be gone anyway. 

Inhale. 

His lungs ached like an electrical pulse of a scream, and he could see his inhaler there, gleaming back from an icy, dark pathway of nothingness. It floated violently against the current, brain aching for it more as it rocked back and forth, fingers frozen down and unable to grasp it any longer, as much as his lungs pained for it, far gone was a term he knew all too well related to what he needed. He could see that blue light against metal, a muffled voice over a speaker speaking of nothing he cared to hear. Did it matter, anyway? Would it matter tomorrow? 

He wonders if he's left the stove on, if the key he hid behind the dead flowers on the porch had blown away, lights out. His favorite book in his favorite place behind the nightstand, bookmark of a love letter bitten with age and tears, a name scratched out at the top a reminder of loss. He was lost.

The coffee on his tongue is no longer present, the taste bitter and frozen, cheeks cold every inhale stretched like a smack and stuck like ice. The back of his eyes seem to push like a pulse in his brain seeping thoughts out of the deepest corners like poison ridding him of anything he'd ever wanted. 

Iron. 

If he looked close enough he could see the wings of the eagles fluttering slowly, weighed down by the frozen weight of nothing, movements rigid and uncoordinated, the sounds no longer sounding natural, but pained. If he looked farther than the white limbs, he could see the gleam of New York, an apartment building up high given his name of a person he wasn't to ever be again, and his neighbors not wondering at 12 AM where he was, but who was no longer there. His boots still sat in the closet, every once in a while on his feet, slowly walking around the wood floors like a ghost in the attic that had been forgotten.

He was. 

The cold was no match for the pain in his heart called missing. He missed him so bad with an ache that could kill if it wished to. It was an ache that reached its hand down his throat and stuck dynamite to every part that could feel anything at all. An ache even the deepest parts of his body wanted no part of him, and he was sure this was hell. He was hell and hell was him, a fire not red but blue in the shape of eyes he'd once called his lover, his friend. 

Blue. 

He closed his eyes, pressure. Migraine in tides of a man calling his name. Not real. The ocean was blue the sky was blue it was all a perfect fucking chain around his throat cutting his oxygen turning blue, blue, blue. He'd remembered the summer at the beach, where the sky was a hue of pink and his fingers had felt like lava, perfectly cooled and moulded to him as if to say forever. Like lava it burned and like the volcano it was bound to blow. He held on as the orange left. 

If he could coil into himself, he would. His feet shook from exhaustion but it was nothing he hadn't ever felt before-punches and spit and yelling at a boy who didn't know what he stood for, so he never bothered to get off the ground. A boy who'd counted more bruises on his body than veins, a boy once afraid and maybe still. A man, presently.

He wondered then if he'd left his bedroom window open, and if the space had become a frozen ocean and destroyed all it held. The idea fascinated him, to return to a place torn down, to start over. Perhaps he could, but not now. Not him. 

One step forward, no steps back. 

The shoe squeaks against the frame, his instinct to hold tight being fought within himself, a push of a reminder that he's got nothing else to lose, if what he never wanted to leave him is now gone with a reminder of everything under the sky that reflects blue.


End file.
